


What's Short and Rhymes?

by herbailiwick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-28
Updated: 2012-07-28
Packaged: 2017-11-10 22:46:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/471546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For cheekbonesofbenny.</p><p>I love poetry, so I decided to do something with that line from <em>Hounds</em> about Sherlock reading John's emails to his girlfriends if he wanted poetry. I translated it literally here, as if John really writes poetry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's Short and Rhymes?

"You really do read my emails to my girlfriends," John said, a little stunned.

Sherlock jerked at the sound, turning to look back over his shoulder. "Sociopath," he said with a shrug, as if that explained it.

"Do you like my terrible poetry?" John said with a laugh.

"It's very," Sherlock paused, frowning as he tried to find the correct adjective. "It's very you," he finally said. "Very John Watson."

"What, short and bad news?" John joked, stepping a bit closer.

"You even rhymed to Sarah about your horrendous first date."

"Horrendous thanks to who, though, Sherlock? Certainly not me."

"Thanks to me," Sherlock said a bit proudly. "As well as the Chinese smugglers."

John leaned in over Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, taking in a silent breath through his nose. Worn wool, the slight hint of sweat at the back of John's neck, John's generic but perfectly recognizable brand of soap. "Ha, look at that," John said, pointing at a couple lines. Sherlock reread it all again.

> If you don't mind, I'd like to try  
>  To not just be the kind of guy  
>  Who'd take you where you'll nearly die.  
>  How's eight on Friday sound?
> 
> My flatmate's really not so bad,  
>  Once you get past the night we've had,  
>  But, still, I think you might be glad  
>  If he wasn't around.

Sherlock's lip quirked up. "I love it, actually," he confessed. "You never told me you could rhyme."

"It never comes up. Except, er, romantically, if I want to flirt a bit."

Sherlock pulled back a bit to put a little space between them, glancing up at John. "As a flirting technique, I'd call it highly effective." His eyes were oddly open and honest.

John chuckled, standing up straight again. "Oh, but not nearly effective enough. I've been continually dumped. My priorities lie with you." He poked at Sherlock's head of curly hair. "It's just something stupid I do. I think poetry might work well enough for other chaps to keep a steady girlfriend, but mine all seem to think you'd be better suited for me." He chuckled. 

Sherlock suddenly turned around to face straight ahead, sitting oddly still.

"It's okay. I mean, Sherlock, what does it matter whether you're right about the poetry working? I'll find someone, eventually, poetry or not. I'm really not blaming you. You might get jealous, and I might break dates to come at your beck and call, but that's really what friendship is about."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I didn't mean it was effective to  _them_."

"But that's what you said, isn't it?" John frowned, confused. "You said—"

"I said that as a flirting technique, _I'd_ call it highly effective."

John's frown increased, and then he gasped almost silently. "Sherlock?" he tried, softly.

Sherlock closed the laptop and stalked off toward his bedroom, shutting the door.

***

Sherlock spent about fifteen to twenty minutes contemplating how empty 221B was going to feel without John in it. He imagined having to visit crime scenes and look for clues without anyone to talk to. He imagined the nightmare of continuing to live in the flat with John  _knowing_ how he felt. 

He felt sick, properly sick to his stomach, when he caught sight of movement under the door.

A piece of paper with handwriting, John's handwriting. The writing didn't extend to the end of the page on the right because it had line breaks. It was poetry.

> Well, Sherlock, I don't know exactly the way  
> To put into words what I'm going to say.  
>  I need you to shut up and just lend an ear  
>  (A first since I've met you; yes, that's a bit clear).
> 
> We don't like to let people into our hearts  
>  (A habit for us, and a choice, on both parts),  
>  But now that I know you've some interest I see,  
>  I want to explore that, and who could blame me?
> 
> You're brilliant and just a bit mad, and what's more?  
>  You make me feel like life is worth living for.  
>  When I came back home, I was lost and alone.  
>  You found me and caught me as if you had known.
> 
> The things is, I don't think you knew, so it's fate,  
>  Or something we could have missed if we'd been late,  
>  But we met and things changed and everyone saw,  
>  And only the two of us fumbled the draw.
> 
> I'd like to see you handle all of my flirting.  
>  I'd like both of us to escape all the hurting.  
>  I'd like to try seeing where we could end up.  
>  If you'd like to too, come and ask for a cup.

Sherlock raised shaking fingers up to card through his hair as he reread it a good seven times before standing, doing his best to keep the sheet of paper as pristine as possible as he opened the door and carried it out, his eyes not leaving the curves of the letters in the perfect words.

He cleared his throat and, still reading the last line, ordered John to grab his favorite mug for him and get the tea going.

It was the best cup of tea Sherlock ever had. And so were all the ones after it, so long as John had made the tea.


End file.
